Flowers and Filthy Poetry

1. By the dusty gramophone

There he was, sat flipping away through the pages of yet another complex looking book.
I'm not one to judge by the cover of a book...because I judge all books regardless.

I don't like to read.

I never understood how people could find themselves immersed in a book like Mr. Intellect over there.

I was partly forced by my parents to help my aunt run her little bookshop in the heart of the city, they said it'd do me good to familiarise myself with the place since I would be attending the university here.
I thought so as well until I fully realised how boring a bookshop could be.

My aunt was a proper killjoy, if anything this place was like a prison, "no electronics." She had said with a sardonic smile.
Of course I disobeyed every last word and scrolled through my phone endlessly but I soon grew out of it and went slightly mad.

I would keep myself busy by observing people that walked in...like Mr. Intellect.
He was here every other day and just like every other day he was sat by the dusty gramophone in one of the corners of the shop, somewhat hidden behind the tall oaky bookshelves but perfectly in my line of (judging) vision.

I never understood how people actually came over to the old shop, it was well...old.
Say, if I were ever interested in books I'd surely be getting my books from a proper shop or maybe even the library. I snorted at myself for thinking up something that bizarre. Me? Reading a book? Pfft.

My rather unpleasant snort seemed to make Mr. Intellect look up from his oh so interesting book, his gaze met mine and he gave me his signature smirk.
Yes, I say signature because he's been giving me those smirks ever since I set foot in this bookshop two weeks ago.

I sent a grimace his way and started looking for my '100 crossword puzzles for beginners!' book on the messy table.

My aunt thought I was old enough to run a bookshop on my own and had pissed off to the Isle of Wight on holiday.

I shoved all the books and crisp wrappers off the table in frustration when I couldn't find the bloody book.

I couldn't bear the thought of having to sit here all day for the next month cramped in this cupboard of a shop that smelt of earth and...old-ness.

I was ready to rip apart anything that came in my way-

"Tsk Tsk Tsk."

"What." I snapped at Mr. Intellect who had made his way from behind the oaky shelves to pick up the things from floor that I had knocked off the table in my blind rage.

He simply picked each book up and placed them on the table gingerly as though he were handling delicate china. He stayed down for a bit before he reached under the table to retrieve another book that had lodged itself securely under the table.
He held the bright yellow book up and gave me an amused smile, I snatched my '100 crossword puzzles for beginners!' from his grasp and mumbled a "thanks" as I sat back down back on the chair (that creaked), a frown still etched onto my miserable face.

He smiled brightly, almost too brightly it nearly interfered with my foul aura.

"You can piss off to your dingy corner now." In a hushed tone, flipping through the pages of my book avoiding all eye contact and hoping it's enough to wipe the smile off his face but not enough to hurt his feelings.

His gaze burned through the top of my head as I crouched over the crossword puzzle, chewing the back of the pencil. He probably understood how unnecessarily insufferable he was being and retorted back to his spot by the dusty gramophone.

The shop was almost always empty save a few old people , Mr. Intellect and I, and on a good day maybe a few students from the university who thought the shop was a rather cute rustic spot for their social media.

My gaze was drawn back to Mr. Intellect, he was just as he was the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that that.
He didn't fit in here, at all.
He had dark hair, dark eyes, and almost everything about him was dark. He also had a silver nose ring that made me think he'd be better off as a punk, skateboarding or spraying graffiti on some poor old tossers car.

He was a specimen. He'd bring in crackers and a thermos filled with soup, feasting on the odd choice of snacks, convinced that I couldn't see him or his little misconduct.

Snacks weren't allowed in the
shop.
Exceptions: me.

He was probably a philosophy student, he surely went to the university. No doubt. He seemed so calm and collected like there was nothing wrong in wasting your entire summer sitting in a dusty old bookshop sipping on soup.

I was told to kick out people who spent hours on end at the shop but didn't buy anything but I couldn't get myself to kick him out. Say what you want but despite envying him for the fact that he could find such joy in isolating himself from the world with a book and a smile by the dusty gramophone, I loved that for him.
I wasn't entirely heartless, I was happy that at least someone under the roof of this godforsaken shop  was happy.

I tossed the crossword book onto the table and grumpily walked over to one of the shelves in search for something to do more with mathematics than with silly words.
You see I was taking up mathematics in university and yes, I prided myself over the fact that I was a math genius by birth.

I like solving things for myself. I don't like it when I'm made to read, I like to work.
I'm probably coming off as such an intolerable bastard but that's that I guess.

I was still looking for a book to match my tastes when I heard the bell chime indicating someone had entered the shop.
I hit my head but hastily guided my vision towards the door only to notice Mr. Intellect had just left.